


Death of a Sleuth

by kmarzski



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8195549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmarzski/pseuds/kmarzski
Summary: 4 stabdads, 4 stabkids, a mob of green puppet men led by a sentient cueball, and a missing private eye.Add conflict, bloodshed, and a healthy dose of death.Mix well, and repeat.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hahahaha!” 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” 

But dare she fucking did. Aradia leapt through the assorted puddles with a childlike joy, contrasting sharply with the eternal glower of her babysitter. As though splashing herself, and thus Karkat, with muck somehow made this dreary as fuck day any pleasanter. 

“Aradia, I swear to whatever crotch-sniffing deity is listening, if you don’t cut it out – ” The girl looked back at him with something of a mix between a smirk and a grin. 

“What? You’re going to tell on me?” Karkat scoffed. 

“Your fucking clothes will do that without my help. What do you think your dad is going to do when he sees that?” he asked, gesturing to her now sodden wardrobe. As if the myriad of holes in it weren’t enough already. Aradia picked at her clothing gingerly, as if just realizing the effect of her rampant puddle-jumping. 

“You don’t think he’ll burn them this time, do you?” 

“Please. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t take out at least half your closet and replace it with more suits.” Well-tailored suits, of course, but that was a given and did nothing to dampen the look of dread spreading across Aradia’s face. Luckily, another thought, one which held more promise, took root. “And what do you think Dad’s going to do to you when he sees what you’ve let me do to my skirt?” And shoes. And shirt. The look of dread passed from Aradia to Karkat. 

“Yeah . . . we’d better hurry.” Hopefully, their guardians hadn’t returned from their most recent heist and would give enough time for Aradia to change into something presentable by Droog’s impossibly classy standards. Thank god Slick didn’t have those kinds of standards. If anything, the errant knife blade hole or blood stain heightened his approval, if only slightly. 

Karkat and Aradia hastened down the street, the latter casting many mournful glances at the missed puddle opportunities, but there was too much on the line for more detours. A few streets and one particularly sleazy brothel later, the pair walked through the doors to the Midnight Crew’s hideout, conveniently placed behind a legitimate establishment. The legitimate manager gave them a conciliatory nod before retreating behind some newspaper or another, but neither kid responded in kind: too distracted by visions of their respective futures should their quest fail. In the corner, behind a stand of melons or something, sat two familiar, if slightly irritated faces. 

“But, really, it’s not that hard. You just have to, um, move the pieces around the board after you roll. And then the little block you land on tells you what to do next.” 

“Thith game ith dumb. What’th even the point?” 

“To build hotels and, uh, other stuff. And, you know. Make money.” 

“Thethe random colored paperth aren’t money. And if I wanted real money, I would go out and fucking get thome, not thit around a table and play pretend buthineth.” 

“Well, you don’t have to play. I just thought – oh, hey, Karkat. And Aradia.” Tavros gave a shy smile as the pair approached while Sollux mutter a quick “hey” and continued staring at the game on the table as though he could glean its secrets through intensity of gaze. Karkat took the seat opposite Tavros while Aradia bounced nervously on her toes, eager to get a move-on. 

“First: are the merry band of misfits back from whatever their most recent adventure of complete and utter bullshit happens to be? Second: what candy-coated shyster brainwashed you two into playing this absolute waste of time?” Sollux moved a small metal car a few places along the board. 

“How would I know if they’re back yet? Been thtuck here playing thith idiotic game for the latht half hour.” Tavros’ hand hovered over the board as Sollux placed his piece. 

“Actually, Sollux, I don’t think . . .” he began, but trailed off when Sollux shot him an irritated glance. The helpful hand retreated, and Tavros shifted his gaze to Karkat. 

“Uh, yeah, what Sollux said. Except about how my game is idiotic. Because it’s not if you actually know how to play. It’s kind of an interesting story how I got it, really. It came from my friend – ” His words were cut off sharply as Aradia zipped over to the table and, in one deft motion, flipped the game board, sending multicolored papers and game pieces flying through the air. 

“Okay, game’s over. Now will you guys please help us?” she requested urgently. Tavros looked affronted while Sollux cheerfully tossed his own wads of dubiously earned fake cash into the air. Karkat facepalmed in a sufficiently long-suffering manner while inwardly thanking the heavens Aradia was a part of their group. Much like Uncle Droog with their predecessors, nothing would get done without her. 

“Right. So,” Karkat intoned into his palm before looking up at his cronies. “Aradia, once again, has thoroughly wrecked her wardrobe.” The girl twirled gloomily for full effect, sending flecks of mud in a circle around her person. 

“Hehe, holy THIT,” Sollux chuckled. 

“Exactly,” replied Karkat. “And as much as I would normally find Aradia’s clothes bonfire absurdly hilarious, I don’t have that luxury anymore since I our insightful superiors fucking put me in charge of her. And probably the rest of you douchebags as well, but you two don’t seem to have done anything distinctly terrible since I left.” Tavros was only half-listening as he scrambled to pick up various pieces from his game, while Sollux merely leaned back in his chair. 

“Yeah? And how doeth thith affect uth? It thuckth that you both went and fucked up tho badly, but I’m not putting my ath in the firing line for it. Neither thould you, TV.” This advice was steadfastly ignored by said sulking Tavros. Karkat threw Sollux a rolling eyes/glare combo – a daring move which should not be attempted by those unaware of its potency – and replied, “Sollux, shut the fuck up. As your leader – ” 

Aradia and Sollux exchanged exasperated glances. 

“ – I demand a certain level of cooperation and respect which you asshats have so far denied me in spades. All I’m asking is for a little assistance so you dick-munching anarchists can begin to repay the massive hoard of IOU’s you’ve been piling on my doorstep like the biggest shit pile in existence from day fucking one-” 

“God, FINE. If it’ll get you to thut your fucking piehole I’ll help, you pedantic ATHhole.” Karkat nodded, glad that at least one subordinate was finally showing some sense. His gaze swung towards Tavros, as did the gazes of the rest of the party. Tavros shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Um . . . yeah, ok. I want to help you guys, just . . . not anything too crazy, okay? I mean, it’s just clothes, after all. Not like hats clothes. Just, uh, normal clothes.” 

“Yeah, whatever. The point is: I’d rather not have half the junior league Midnight Crew take a beating for something that could probably be avoided if we all collectively took our heads out of our asses and worked as a group. With me in charge, of course.” Aradia sighed. 

“Karkat, do you actually have a plan or – ” 

“I’m getting to it! Hold your horses, Aradia, since they’re apparently clogging your ears.” Karkat looked around his makeshift gang, but no further reprimands were needed. He had their attention. Finally. 

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” 

* * *

Tavros rolled down the hallway slowly, taking great care to not rattle his wheelchair against various weapons, broken furniture, and other goodies which littered the hall. The small walkie-talkie vibrated from his lap. 

“*crrrrkk* Eagle One to Hot Wheels. Eagle One to Hot Wheels. Do you read me? Over. *crrrrkk*”

“Um, why are you making that noise? You know I can still hear you from the hall, right?”

“Tavros, just . . . be cool, okay? Let’s try and be goddamn professional here.” 

“Oh, uh, sure. Um . . . * crrrrkk* Tavros to Eagle One. It looks pretty clear right now, I guess. Approaching the end of the hall, so that may change. Uh. Over.” 

Expectant silence from the line. Tavros sighed and raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth. 

“*crrrrkk*” 

A couple seconds more, and the passageway emptied into a roomy grey space. It was a stout room with low ceilings and armored walls – more like a bunker than an actual room. Besides the various heist maps, bloodstains, and bullet holes, the only décor was a table with a tarp laid over it like some poor excuse for a table cloth and four wooden chairs, all tossed about the room as if their occupants had left in a hurry. And the weapons racks on the walls, but those were a given for any respectable mobster hideout.

“*crrkkk* Hot Wheels to Karkat. I don’t see anybody. I don’t think our dads are back yet. *crrkkk* Over.” 

“Thith ith dumb. Couldn’t one of uth jutht go in and get her thome frethh clotheth?” murmured Sollux from the background. 

“No, shut up, this plan is better,” responded Karkat before getting his oddly shouty voice back to the device. 

“What was that? The assholes aren’t there? Repeat, Hot Wheels. Over. *crrkkk*” 

“Karkat, the code stuff wastes a lot of time. Do I really have to-” 

“*crrkkk* Sorry, Wheels, you’re breaking up. Don’t worry, we’re sending Inthufferable Prick in to back you up. Over. *crrkkk*” 

“And fuck you, too, Vantath,” came the muffled reply.

The door down the hall creaked open, and about twelve seconds later Sollux plodded into the room. 

“’Thup?” he asked without much enthusiasm.

“Well, they’re not here. Obviously.” Tavros wondered why Karkat had bothered wasting ten minutes of precious time on far-flung, if thorough, attack plans when the Midnight Crew wasn’t even in the building. Treasonous as it apparently was to say, none of this was well thought out. Never was. Sollux slung himself into one of the seats. 

“Yeah, I figured ath much.” Silence stretched between them. 

“So, uh . . . we should tell Karkat that it’s all clear, right?” 

“Give it a minute.” More silence. The voice over the radio tried making contact once, then twice, with increasing volume. Tavros shifted uneasily in his chair, but Sollux stayed his hand. Finally, after a fruitless third try, the sound of their two friends coming down the hallway broke the tension. 

“You fucking assholes. I give you one simple job, and you still manage to fuck it up. What happened to casing joint? The strategic barricades at intervals for maximum Midnight Crew avoidance? And I guess the escape routes I outlined were just in one ear, out the other. That’s a good thirty works of undeniable art gone to waste.” 

“Fuck your planth, and fuck your drawingth. Jutht let Aradia get changed without all your melodramatic bullthit for once. MC ithn’t here. Mithion accomplithed.” Aradia – tired of all the endless shenanigans – made her first step towards the makeshift bedroom suite. Karkat was about to make another scathing, nigh caustically poetic, reply, when a new sound made the group collectively freeze and fall into deathly silence. The muffled clap of car doors closing; loud voices pounding the walls; footsteps trekking down the back hall. Straight to the main room. Karkat was first to break from the daze. 

“Hide,” he hissed, grabbing Aradia’s arm and dragging her under the table. The tarp rustled treacherously as the pair disappeared, and Tavros and Sollux moved their wheelchair and chair-chair, respectively, into screening position. 

“You idiot! Why didn’t we just make a break for the bedrooms?” whispered Aradia furiously. 

“Oh, shut up, Aradia. We’re only in this mess because you couldn’t keep out of a goddamn puddle. What – ow!” A swift kick courtesy of Sollux’s shoe quickly ended conversation, and not a moment too soon. 

The far right door opened with a bang as Hearts Boxcars made a sudden appearance, carrying something large and not too pleased with being made into a bundle. The gangster quickly discarded his package onto the table, causing the kids, both hidden and not, to start. From his new home, the stranger, gagged and bound, glared wildly at his surroundings, taking note of exits, children, and captor, all while testing the ropes holding him. The thrashing coupled with the green suit made the man oddly reminiscent of a fish flopping on dry land. Boxcars trudged further into the room with Clubs Deuce bobbing in behind him, what was presumably the stranger’s striped hat giving him few more inches of height than usual. Tavros and Sollux stared at their guardians, more expectant than surprised. Certainly wasn’t the strangest thing their guardians had dragged in here.

“You know, Dad, when you thaid you were getting uth dinner, I wathn’t expecting thith,” Sollux commented gesturing at their new houseguest. The captive went oddly still. 

“Oh, hi, Sollux!” returned Deuce warmly. “How was school today? Did you make any new friends?”

“We’re not cannibalizing any tailors, brat,” interrupted Spades Slick, drubbing Deuce on the head with his horse hitcher in passing for good measure. Aradia allowed herself a glimmer of hope. Her father had not come in with the rest of the Crew. Perhaps he was otherwise occupied.

“You two, out. We’ve got some business to discuss with Stitch Face here,” he continued, prodding the captive. Tavros, thankful for the excuse to escape, rolled the fuck out. Sollux hesitated a fraction of a second more, but ultimately followed suit. No matter what shitty position Karkat had wrangled himself into, you couldn’t just ignore a direct order from the boss. That was a good way to get a disciplinary stabbing, and Sollux rather liked his kidneys too well to have them punched full of holes. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely...the story will proceed.

Hearts Boxcars and Clubs Deuce waited in silence as their charges left the room, one in easy expectation of orders from the boss, the other because he had zoned out and begun thinking about the mystery of where toast came from. We leave it to the Reader to determine which thoughts belong in which heads. Even the rival gang member had ceased his thrashing, morbidly curious as to what would come next. 

After a suitably tension-filled period of time, Spades Slick retrieved a knife from somewhere on his person and approached the table. The tarp crinkled loudly under his feet; the children underneath struggled not to breathe. 

“Heard a lot about you, Stitch Face. Never dirty your hands on heists like those other ingrates.” The knife found its home in the palm of Stitch’s hand, nailing it firmly to the table. Muffled curses strained through the gag. 

“That don’t mean you’re getting out of this scot-free.” Once the captive had quieted somewhat, Hearts removed the gag. Stitch panted painfully and stared down his tormentor. 

“I’m not much for interrogations, Mr. Slick, but from what I hear they don’t generally _begin_ with maiming your prisoner.” Slick’s lip curled slightly. He tore the knife from Stitch’s arm in one swift motion, nodding to his cronies. Hearts took the hint, picking up the green man like a ragdoll and tossing him into the most readily available chair while Slick wiped off the fresh blood on Deuce’s suit jacket. 

“Pitiful. We’ve had to resort to snatching their damn tailor to get any kind of meaningful conversation. The sooner all these idiots stop being alive the better.” Hearts chuckled darkly. 

“It’s not from lack of trying, boss. Doesn’t matter how many times we kill the bastards; they always pop back up.” 

“I’m tired of all this bullshit,” Slick growled. “What’s the point of bullets if they don’t do their damn job?” Stitch flexed his injured hand tentatively and winced. Slick smacked him across the face to get back his attention. 

“There anything that can really kill you clock-worshiping assholes?” 

“Afraid not.” Not that Stitch looked too eat up about it. Spades Slick grunted and equipped his horse hitcher. The metal end tapped against the cold concrete once, twice. 

“What are we up to, Hearts?” 

“Shooting, stabbing, drowning, and bludgeoning so far,” counted Boxcars, ticking off each figure with a method of death. “Those are the most frequent, at least. Hard to keep track.” 

“And that time I ran over the blue one,” crowed Deuce. 

“And death by burrito truck,” he amended. 

“Don’t forget immolation,” came a voice from down the hall. Aradia stifled a groan. Diamonds Droog stepped into the room, every line of his suit pressed to perfection. Slick nodded to him in acknowledgement before training his eyes on the target, horse hitcher twitching anxiously in his hands. It was taking a good deal of self-restraint not to bury it in that green asshole’s skull, for all the good that would do long-term. 

“If I recall correctly,” Droog continued, “it took Five over a week to pull himself together.” 

“Fin,” muttered Stitch. 

“Not quite.” 

Slick muttered curses restlessly under his breath. 

Droog took a drag from his cigarette and blew smoke through his nose, filling the room with the smell of nicotine. “Calm down, Slick.” 

“Shut the hell up,” he retorted. “Only good Felt is a dead one, and even then they don’t have the common decency to stay that way long.” 

The horse hitcher beat the ground decisively. “And as much as I enjoy bleeding them out each time, it’s starting to lose its novelty.” 

“Meaning you’re getting bored?” 

Slick muttered some dark words underneath his breath. Droog only shrugged. 

“By all means, kill him. We’ll end up there eventually.” Another pull from the cigarette. “But if you want the fun to come back into your murders, I suggest we find a way to make them stick.” The two mobsters shared look before fastening their gazes back on the captive. Stitch couldn’t help but feel the danger of his having their undivided attention. 

“And how do you lot plan to do that?” he asked, quietly.

“Kill the snake by the head,” murmured Hearts.

“Exactly,” returned Slick. “So, Stitch Face. Where’s your boss?”

“Don’t know.” Deuce hopped up and down excitedly beside Stitch.

“Ooh, ooh, can I do it this time, boss?”

“Fine.” The short mobster gave a winning smile before landing the blow, nearly knocking Stitch from his chair. Karkat winced sympathetically as the dull thwack reverberated across the room. The Felt member glared at them all through his one good eye, the scar across his face turning even redder from repeated abuse.

“Hit me all you want. Won’t change anything. None of us have seen the Boss in years.” Stitch spat out a mouthful of blood. 

“Then who gives you your orders?” questioned Droog.

“Everything goes through the Doc. Sometimes Crowbar, if the job is small enough.” Slick considered the man silently for a moment. 

“And the bitch?” Stitch shifted slightly.

“I’m just the tailor. I don’t know anything about that.”

“Like hell you don’t,” growled Slick.

“The Doctor, Stitch. He’s not always in the mansion. Where does he go?” continued Droog.

Stitch laughed drily. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” He sat back in his chair, as much as the restraints would allow, testing the boundary between the power his information held and the killing intent of his captors.

“The Mansion’s a maze, ya know. Those rooms come and go as they please. Get up to take a piss and end up on some balcony you didn’t know existed. You’ve been there yourselves once or twice.”

“Briefly.” Stitch nodded.

“Then you have some inkling what it’s like. The only people who find the Doc are those he lets in. And they’re few and far between.” Droog and Slick took a moment of contemplative silence. More accurately, Droog silently contemplated while Slick sulked in a growing fog of his own bloodlust. Karkat and Aradia watched the scene play out through a slit in the tarp, afraid to move lest the unholy interruption break the interrogative spirit. They, neither of them, had seen their fathers work before. Not with a front row seat. It would’ve been exhilarating had the fear of being found out not blotted all other senses.

Droog broke the heavy silence.

“But he’s there now, isn’t he?” Stitch stared at a point on the distant wall, not uttering a sound.

“The Felt has been particularly active this week,” Droog continued. “Three documented murders in less than a week and at least eight _un_ documented. Why?”

Stitch mumbled something under his breath. The mumbling turned to screams when a sharpened cuestick imbedded itself into his shoulder. Red blossomed from the point of contact, soiling the neon green, turning it ugly, sickly.

“Pardon?”

Gradually, the screams turned to curses, the curses to mumbling, mumbling to…laughter. Low and rough. Like sandpaper over sharp rocks.

“Doesn’t matter if you know, I s’pose. Doc would’ve told us to off you had you been involved…”

Droog wrenched the cuestick painfully through its new home, drawing a fresh wave of blood and wailing. Karkat cringed and covered his ears. Aradia watched with a sort of grim fascination.

“ _We’re looking for something_ ,” cried Stitch, through gritted teeth. “Something that was taken.” Droog and Slick exchanged a glance.

“Some non-us fucker with enough moxy to hit up the Felt mansion? I’d like to shake his hand. Right before the Felt remove it from is body,” Slick snickered. Karkat looked up briefly, but the sight of the captive drove his eyes back down.

“And your prime suspect?” probed Droog.

“. . . Problem Sleuth.” Deuce sucked in a breath, only to be elbowed by Hearts. The smirk fell from Slick’s face.

“I knew you idiots were a hell of a lot short of a full deck, but now you’re just shredding the cards. You’re looking for a dead man.”

“Doc says otherwise.” Droog seemed to consider the man’s words for a moment, his cold mask revealing nothing; then he snapped the cuestick in half. One half twirled idly in the mobster’s deft fingers while the other jutted uncomfortably out of Stitch’s shoulder.

“What was taken?”

Silence on the line. Droog poised his half of the cuestick on Stitch’s uninjured shoulder. The captive tensed slightly in expectation of pain but otherwise gave no response.

“Come now, Nine. You’ve been so helpful up until now. And we have a lot more bodyparts to go through before we’re finished here.”

“. . . I’m afraid you’re going to have to kill me for that one, Mr. Droog.”

“Is this secret really worth your death?”

“For those immortal, death is just an inconvenience. But whatever pain you lot plan to put me through is a thousand times better than what the Doc will do to us if I give you that piece of information.”

“Care to put that to the test?” snarled Slick, closing in on the captive. Deuce whispered something to Hearts; the latter nodded solemnly. Both took a large step back from the group.

“The children, Slick,” reminded Droog, placing a cautionary hand on his leader’s shoulder. “Plenty of time for that later.” Stitch broke his staring contest with Spades Slick and shifted his attention to the tall lieutenant.

“Is there?”

The question was answered by a sharp knock on the outside door. The Crew looked between themselves in confusion for a few seconds. The knock came again, more insistent this time. At a nod from his boss, Hearts Boxcars shrugged with forced nonchalance and walked to the door, drawing his deck in one hand as the other attended to the doorknob. Not a second after the door had cleared, a small man in a purple top hat bobbed quickly into the room, all smiles and jittery energy.

“…Clover?” wondered Slick, doing little to hide confusion.

The little leprechaun nodded excitedly, dancing from foot to foot: wholly at odds with the noir atmosphere this author had spent so much time creating. 

“Hey, guys! Look what I found,” he stated proudly, raising his left hand high. Deuce was the first to react, face contorting from blissful ignorance to manic frenzy in the span of a moment.

“BOMB!” he screamed.

Slick gripped the edges of the table and flipped the large metal piece Clover-wards, just as it burst, filling the air with fire and smoke and shrapnel. Karkat and Aradia screamed, gripping onto each other in fear. Droog started at the sight of the two huddled children, breaking character for a fraction of a second, but the sound of gunfire quickly drew them from further deliberations. Slick barely spared them a glance.

“We’ve got Stripes!” shouted Boxcars. “Take cover.”

Vaulting into action, Droog landed a solid kick to the table, sending it spiraling towards the door. Hearts met the vaulting furniture head-on with grace that belied his size, barricading it across the door in one smooth motion. One hand held the wall in place. The other clutched at the wounds across his chest and the blood seeping from them.

“Hearts!” called Deuce in dismay. 

“He’ll live,” Slick growled, wrenching the two scared-shitless kids to their feet, tossing them towards Deuce. “Get the kids out of here.”

“Dad – ” began Karkat.

“Shut your fucking mouth, kid; we’ll talk _later_ ,” he retorted, equipping his pistol. Karkat bit back a sharp retort, and allowed Deuce to drag him and Aradia behind the closest pile of burning boxes. Their charges in (somewhat) capable hands Slick and Droog quickly joined the box brigade, piling high Hearts’ barricade with anything in the room that wasn’t already on fire. Slick ducked his head above the pile briefly, only to duck back down under a hail of bullets and curses.

“How many?” asked Droog, barely breaking stride.

“Three, not counting that lucky bastard. And one of ‘ems Crowbar.” Droog’s face darkened slightly, but otherwise remained neutral.

“It may all be worth it if we can decommission Seven. For a time, anyway.”

Gunfire pelted around the room through gaps in the makeshift barrier, ricocheting off walls and tables before burying itself on one pockmarked surface or another. Deuce’s hands traced fretfully over his disturbing bull penis cane as he considered his options, mumbling to himself as he did so.

“Gotta go for the rooms, gotta go for the rooms. Gotta… um… oh, hey, Karkat. Were you and Aradia playing hide-and-seek? I don’t think you usually pop out from under tables. I know that Sollux – ”

“Uncle Deuce,” prompted Aradia. “The rooms?”

“Oh! Yes, gotta go for the rooms.”

“Why d’we gotta go for the rooms?” piped Clover.

“Slick told me to. Or was it Droog… somebody told me to go to the rooms.”

“That doesn’t sound like your boss,” commented Clover, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But I guess it doesn’t matter. None of you are getting out of here alive today! Crowbar said so.”

“The fuck does that mean?” asked Karkat, irritation briefly overtaking his fear. “You neon-worshipping clowns can’t even pull your heads out of your well-cushioned asses to properly pull heists. Now you’re geared up to take down the most insidious gang of assholes in Midnight City?”

“Oh, Slick’s son, that was before you lot stole Stitch! Death and mutilation, even invasion of our territory we can stand. But kidnapping our tailor?” Clover’s lips pulled back, revealing a row of needle-like teeth. “That’s a crime no mobster can forgive.” His smile faded slightly as Clover found himself staring into the barrel of a gun.

“I’ve heard enough,” gritted Aradia. Her finger pulled the trigger, but instead of a neat bullethole appearing in Clover’s forehead, there came a rough clunk from gun’s inner mechanisms. Confused, Aradia tried again. An empty click. Then another. Clover’s smile returned, with more than a touch of smugness.

“How dumb! Are you really Droog’s girl? But anyways I’d start running if I was you.”

“Huh? Why?” asked Deuce as Aradia warily lowered her firearm.

“Reinforcements, of course. But also because I don’t think Stitch appreciated your people stabbing him so many times.” 

A long green arm snaked around Aradia’s neck and pulled her into the air. She yelped, struggling to hold onto Karkat, Deuce, ANYTHING, but was unable to fight the force, so much greater than her own. Blood soaked into her soiled clothes from behind as the sharp end of a broken cuestick nestled into a point below her chin. His breath tickled her ears; she fought the urge to scream.

“Settle down, lass. You’ve only yourself to blame for becoming a casualty.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this some time ago before being distracted by other projects. 
> 
> Here's to hoping AO3 can motivate me to finish the tale :D


End file.
